The Beauty of Gray

To expect's a human habit, which we're stuck with, bad or good,

But when expectations turn to stone, stop being “could” and turn to “should,”

They're not the only things that harden. So do our hearts and arteries.

Raised certainty raises blood pressure. Expectation's a disease.

Expecting too much turns the light out on what we've really got.

A pessimist sees could-be and then better-than-I-thought.

Tie Our Stars Together (a Poem-in-Monologue)

“I'm not committed to tradition, and I believe there's no 'forever,'

But I see appeal in closeness that could tie our stars together.

Still, what we our is just our pasts. Our potential lies in dreams.

Your dreams aren't mine, and I can't bear to see them sacrificed for me.”

At least, that's what I say. The truth is that I'm alone

Because I could not bear to see me sacrifice my own.

Failure to Communicate in the Art of Saying "No"

It's been said late to bed and early to rise
Is how the strong make the most of their lives.
I hold to that course, for the sake of the time,
Though I suspect work is the point of such rhymes.
How does that make life better?  You say the only way how
Is to be dissatisfied with my ample life now.
That doesn't make sense.  Life is good satisfied.
If I don't care for things, why fuss over their size?
Laws declare we're free to forge forward, enterprise.
I declare myself free to settle down, stand aside.

The Grass on the Other Side

As I sit upon this mass-produced bench,
My unbelonging wafting round me, (oh the stench!)
I wonder if there is anything sadder than waiting alone.
Then I hear the ringing of the phone.
When I pick it up, I hear on the other line,
The voices of not valuing my own free time
Or not even having any of it to claim,
and of not having a purpose I hold as close as my name.
It turns out that there is a purpose in this call:
To introduce me to things sadder—some, not all.

An Idiot Talks Himself Into It

My ears tell me she's interesting;

She has a lot that's worth hearing to say.

My eyes say she's not fascinating,

But she rates at least an 'okay.'

My years of being less young than I was

Say I trained against this yearning,

That I'm happy enough, but not human enough;

I have no love, only learning.

The part of me that still thinks it's young

Says we make a good pair, so let's go.

Life has taught me that women will hide

Incompatibility. It's a strategy they know.

I don't want life (or a year, or even a month)

For us to mean hiding who she is,

But I'm a niche product, and I'm packaged as such.

She might really be interested,

and if that's the case, and if all this is real,

Then what could be the harm?

Perhaps somehow life would be better for her

If we lived it arm in arm.

I've complained that social justice wins no broad beachhead in my heart.

Is to favor interesting, not pretty, not at least a start?

All that's certain, for me, is my poetic voice

Signifies a blithering idiot

Who knows what not to do, and so uses sound and fury

To talk himself into it.

Less Human Than Human

I'm a ridiculous creature, pretending to be human,

and I certainly do a terrible job.

I occupy all space but the fine line between

Worship and neglect. I cherish and ignore every friend I've got.

Being my friend can't be easy. The compensation

Is that you can do or say or ask whatever you want,

and I'll comply, or jump to it, or agree, or give permission,

Or just nod.

That One Time I Wished for a Middle Seat

I can't help but gaze at seats B and C,

and I can't help but notice their owners' appeal–

In the subjective, not my favorite–to be objective, surely real,

and for once I wish away my corner–window seat–

To see both their faces as they talk across me.

I can imagine what a simple pleasure it would be

To be ignored–and even silent–but still in between.

It's the only time I ever wished to have a middle seat.